I step into a small Venetian plaza moments after sunrise, before the city stirs.
The cobblestones beneath my sandals are worn smooth, shifting slightly underfoot. Buildings press in on all sides, their colors softened by centuries of sun, wind, and rain — faded reds, pale yellows, chipped plaster. The morning light is just beginning to touch them.
The air carries a faint mix of espresso and brackish water — the lagoon rising from the wood pilings beneath the city, softened by the cool dampness of the stone.
In the center sits a stone well — quiet, easy to overlook. Carved from dense Istrian stone, its surface is worn smooth by centuries of hands, buckets, and passing water.
At first, it just looks like worn stone.
Then you notice the water — and the cats that gather around it.
For centuries, they were the city’s primary source of fresh water. Rain fell into the square, filtering through layers of sand beneath the stones before collecting in a c…
